Growing Weeds in Asphalt
by Marilyn Cane
Summary: It's not his fault the waitress and cook are off playing rabbits and Fury doesn't understand the benefit of explosions in small spaces, or that he cannot, in good conscience, turn down free food. That hot European girl has nothing to do with it. Hawkeye/OC. Written entirely because of a dare.
1. Chapter 1

**IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Like I say in the summary, I was literally dared to write this. I've had this character sitting around for a while and haven't really done anything with her yet, and my friend bet me that I couldn't fit her into an Avenger's fanfiction with a pairing.

...it may or may not become obvious why this is worthy of a dare. If it isn't, I guess I did my job well.

Also! The girl's supposed to have a very slight Norwegian accent. Yeah, if anyone's read "Half Past Nine in Norway," you'll notice that I'm a little in love with that country. I blame my AP Euro essay. There's another similarity between the stories, too, but it was inevitable if I wanted to keep the character intact.

This'll be written entirely in Clint's point of view unless requested otherwise. And I have no idea what the character's age is supposed to be, but some reason I always imagined him relatively young (and yeah, I know that the actor is like forty, but Robert Downey Jr is forty-seven and I'm pretty sure he's playing a thirty-something year old). Probably because I always imagined Natasha young, and assumed they were around the same age.

Okay, so now that that's over, disclaimer!: I own nothing but my own character and whatever OC pops up for convenience.

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**I.**

There's a twenty-four hour diner on the corner of Eighth and Forty-Fourth that Clint likes to escape to when he can't deal with anyone else for a while. On a Friday morning at three, after long, post-mission argument with Fury about the use of explosive arrows in narrow spaces, he heads over, hands in his pockets, just wanting to sit down with a coffee and ignore the softly played 80s songs coming from the speakers. It's something like a routine, but too sporadic to really count, and it's never failed him before.

So why, at three in the morning during an early autumn storm, is there a closed sign hanging from inside the glass door of a twenty-four hour diner?

"We never get anyone between two and four when it rains," says a voice from his side. He looks over, and there's a girl he shockingly hadn't noticed sitting on the window ledge under the awning. She has long, curly blonde hair and blue eyes with freckles across the bridge of her nose, wearing the dark green waitress shirt, speaking with a slight accent that he can't identify off the top of his head. She continues, "Ellie and Josh decided to use the time to get to know each other a little better."

She does air quotes around "get to know" and the middle-aged graveyard waitress' name tag says Eleanor, so Clint can only assume the girl means her, and Josh is most likely the decrepit, old cook. He easily could've gone through his life never knowing that, and would regret nothing. "What're you doing here, then?" he asks because the shirt is a dead giveaway that she's an employee.

"My shift ends at five," she answers, expression turning sullen, "so I'm expected to stick here until they get back and finish my last hour. Are that - god, what did they call you? - Hawkeye guy from the whole saving the world thing?"

The recognition comes as a surprise. Normally it's Natasha or Steve or Tony who receive the media attention because he's just that awkward bow-and-arrow person that chills on rooftops (a blogger's words, not his and he finds the use of awkward to be a little ironic since, besides maybe Tony, he's probably the least socially uncomfortable out of all of them). "Yeah," he says.

The girl stands and adjusts the strap of the messenger bag she has thrown over one shoulder. "There's a pumpkin pie that I can't get to my boyfriend because of the storm," she tells him. "Saving the world authorizes you a free dessert if you want it. I can let us in through the kitchen."

Since there's rarely good reason to turn down any type of pie, and the girl looks more like same high school kid rather than a criminal mastermind, he says, "Sure." The girl smiles and he notices that her mouth is a little wide for a face predominately made up of fine features. As he follows her into the alley and over to the kitchen side door, he adds, "You aren't going to get in trouble for this, right?"

She slides the key into the lock and pushes open the door. "What the lovebirds don't know won't hurt them," she answers, flicking on the light and shutting the door behind him. He takes a mental note that she hasn't locked it. "Same goes for Mrs. Alan - she's the owner. Besides, is it really going to take you an hour to eat a couple slices? Sit over there."

He follows directions because there's little point in not and she drops her bag on the tabletop next to him before going over to the over sized refrigerator. He catches a glimpse of a notebook cover and says, "Russian One?"

The girl turns around and he gets his first good look at her. Her chest is small (a fact not helped by the baggy shirt), her hips wide, her arms twiggy-looking from under the short sleeves. There's a bruise half hidden on her upper arm. She's short too, probably only five foot even, with weirdly little hands that should belong to an eight-year-old, not someone fully grown. She could be anywhere between sixteen and twenty-one, and for comfort's sake, he hopes she's at least legal because she's pretty hot in that you're-way-too-young-for-me sort of way.

She says, "Oh, yeah," and puts the two slices of pumpkin pie and a glass of water in front of him before taking a seat too. "It's for college. I'm a multilingualism major at NYU."

College. Right. Odds are that she's legal, then, so sitting alone with her in the back of diner is a little less uncomfortable and definitely not as creepy.

"Cool," he says because he can't think of anything else but he's eating what's meant for her boyfriend so he feels pretty much obligated to talk. And said pie is _way _better than however Natasha makes it. "So how's that going for so far..." He takes a look at her name tag and blinks. "Jesus, I'm not even going to try."

With a laugh, she says, "It's pronounced Bree-oh-nee. Um, here, a formal introduction." She ticks out her hand. "Briony Frederiksen."

"Clint Barton." They shake. "Just call me Clint."

Again, she smiles. "So how's the pie? Josh made it for me, so you can say if it's bad."

"No, it's good." He can tell it's the cook, too, because he's gotten this before in the early morning, and it tastes the same. "You still have some for your boyfriend, right?"

"Nope," she says cheerfully, tucking her hair behind ear, which he sees isn't pierced. Sometimes it's annoying noticing everything, but after years of observation training, it's become instinct. He also knows just from looking that the best attack point is behind the file cabinet stuck in the corner, pushed a little away from the wall, and the easiest escape route is back through the door to the alley. "But whatever, it was a peace offering thing anyway. Jack will just have to deal with a normal apology for once."

So they must fight a lot, Clint thinks. "Okay," he says. "Thanks for this, by the way."

"Any time." The accents sounds like it comes from one of the Scandinavian countries, even though her first name sounds British. After a moment, she adds, "This is going to be a weird question but as like some secret agent person, do you know anything about Russian grammar? Or is that a James Bond thing?"

As someone who'd only seen two _James Bond _movies, he hadn't known the iconic character knew any different languages. And though it's a little out of the blue, he wouldn't necessarily call the question weird. "I know mostly slang, but I can try to help," he says because he's assuming grammar doesn't change all that much from dialect to dialect. "What're you having trouble with?"

The girl - Briony - looks relieved as she fully pulls out the Russian I notebook. As she flips through it, she answers, "Past tense. People always say that after learning one foreign language the rest are easy, but I know four and this is still giving me a headache."

He pushes the now-empty pie place aside and looks down at the page in front of him, verifying that no, grammar doesn't change from dialect to dialect. "You're on the right track," he answers, "but at the end of the sentence, you're changing it to future tense."

"What? I haven't learned that yet."

"Do you have a pen?" She looks through her bag and hands him one. It's red. "See, this is what you're supposed to do."

The lesson goes by in fifteen minutes, which feels fast but she seems to be following along fine. When he finishes and she gets another sentence right, she says, "You just made that a thousand times easier than the way Professor Chex taught it."

"That's the way my friend showed me," he says. The date at the top of the page reads _October 6, 2012_, making these notes date back a week ago. "Why didn't you get help earlier?"

With a shrug, she answers, "My best friend's a classic's major, so any modern language other than English doesn't interest her, my boyfriend only took a semester of German for the credit, and all my classmates are about as clueless as I am - was. Seriously, thank you."

Though Briony is talkative, he appreciates that she's also direct. Most women (and Natasha would kill him if she ever heard him generalize like this) always have to skirt around...well, everything. And tend to phrase things like questions. "Hey, you gave me free pie."

"I guess Mamma's right about food being the quickest way to a boy's heart," she says with a hint of mocking and not the least bit flirty. Her eyes flick to the digital clock on the wall and she groans. "Okay, Ellie and Josh should be back soon, so I better chill out front. Just let yourself out, I have to wash the dishes."

About forty minutes passed, he sees, and wonders how he hadn't noticed time go by so fast. "Well, thanks, Briony," he says, standing. "It was nice meeting you." Considering that he hasn't met someone that he actually needs to be polite to in a while, the words sound unfamiliar.

"Nice meeting you too," she says, already at the sink. "Oh, and Clint." He stops midway to the door and glances back at her. "I'm here from one to five Fridays, Saturdays, and Mondays. You know, if you want free food."

"Sure," he says because he ends up here relatively often anyway and now that he's aware that middle-aged graveyard lady and the cook are off banging somewhere thankfully not in the general vicinity, he isn't sure he'll be able to be around them without remembering the way Briony said "lovebirds."

So she smiles and turns around and as he pulls the door shut behind him, he's pretty sure she's humming "Singing in the Rain."

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Yeah, I know nothing about Russian.

Also, first chapter! I'm going to correct any Clint OOC-ness asap because this chapter for the most part was just me working out their dynamic.

Review please! I will love you. Totally. :3 And please no flames. =/


	2. Chapter 2

Second chapter! To be honest, I'm kind of surprised how many people favorited/alerted this. I felt so ridiculously guilty writing the first chapter too since this is technically the second OC I've written, but since people like it...I guess it's fine.

Also, this has mentions that a sort of direct tie into "Under a Thick Exterior" and "The Other One." I've discovered that connecting stories is kind of fun.

And since this character originated through a multimedia photoshop project, I technically have a picture of her. I'd show it, but I'm not sure how.

Disclaimer: Except for the OCs, not mine.

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"I was wondering when you'd show up again."

Briony's in front of him, all wide smile and blue eyes and freckles, wearing a shirt about five sizes too big with a name tag that reads _Dora_. It's been a month of missions and sleeping and dealing with Tony's bullshit of "I'm okay" after breaking six ribs. Now it's two thirty in the morning and he can't sleep because of a headache that just won't go away. On normal days when this happens, he goes to bother Tony, but Natasha flat-out threatened him not to go anywhere near the guy. Something about slipping melatonin into his food so he'd stop looking like a raccoon. So, of course, Clint did the only logical thing he could think of, which is visiting a little Scandinavian waitress at a twenty-four hour diner while her co-workers play rabbits somewhere that is not here.

Yeah, totally logical.

He says, "I've been sleeping. Not everyone's a night owl like you."

"Well, hawks _are _diurnal," she says, and it sounds like something one of the other Avengers would say just to annoy him, not some random girl. "Anyway, want anything to eat?"

"Just some coffee," he answers as he follows her through the alley side door into the kitchen. "And I'm actually going to pay this time. Mooching off you once is enough."

She gives him an exasperated look before heading over to the coffee maker in the corner. "This is the City, Clint," she says. "I'm not letting you pay five dollars for a coffee made in a household appliance."

"Okay," he says, because it's two thirty in the morning and he doesn't feel like arguing for politeness' sake or not. "How's the Russian coming?"

The coffee maker turns on with a startling _beep. _"Pretty good," she says. "Thanks to you I was the only one who knew past tense, which was pretty cool. And now we're working on future tense, which I'm like a thousand times better at."

This isn't something that surprises him, since she was doing it accidentally before anyway. "That's good," he says and leans back against the table, arms folded.

"What about you?" she asks. "What've you been up to lately, Mr. Superhero?"

"I'm not a superhero."

"I guess." She smirks. "That doesn't stop the ridiculous number of people who've taken up archery because of you. How do you take your coffee?"

"Just black," he answers. "Are you serious?"

She hums in the way that means yes and hands him the mug. "That what you get for being the good guy," she says, and hops up onto the counter top. "I'm not a fangirl, though, don't worry," she adds. "I don't have the upper body strength to be."

Finding out he has "fangirls" is both disturbing and flattering. He says, "Do you do anything? Not me or anyone else related, I am."

"I played foot - soccer back in Norway and the two years I was here for high school."

Norway. So he was right about Scandinavia. "Are you alone here every Friday?"

"Yup." She kicks off her shoes and swings her legs back and forth. Her feet, as it turns out, have the same smallness as her hands. "So, you know, the company's kind of nice. And," she continues quickly, "um - well -"

After a moment of letting her squirm (because it's actually really funny) as she tries to find the words, he changes the subject with, "As a second semester sophomore multilingualism major, do you have to take more than one language a semester?"

He doesn't miss her brief look of relief. Sure, this might be small talk, but he legitimately wants to know. "Yeah," she answers. "I'm also taking Spanish, because it's basically a necessity, and German. I might take a few courses in Chinese next year or the year after, and just finish with Rosetta Stone or something. Russian is hard enough to deal with."

Learning several different languages he can understand, especially in his field of work, but he can't really get why someone would want a degree for it. "I know Spanish and German, too, if you ever need help with that."

"So you're going to come back again?"

Though that wasn't what he was thinking, yeah, he did sort of say that. "Sure," he says, and shrugs. And that's totally because of the free food and not because she's ridiculously hot. Because she's about eighteen and someone nine years younger than him is not a person he finds attractive, he tells himself.

And after last week's enlightening conversation with Tony, this just feels even more awkward.

"Awesome," she says, and pulls a cell phone out of her pocket. "What's your number? In case I'm inside or not here or any other reason that I can't think of right now."

He takes the offered phone from her, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that assures him that this is an action he'll regret later and adds himself before sending a text to his phone. It beeps in his pockets.

"You said this is your first year of college, right?" he asks because _he has to make sure. _Briony nods. "So how old are you?"

"Eighteen," she answers, which is a reassurance that, yes, at least she's legal. "Yeah, I know, everyone expects me to have been held back a grade because my first language is Norwegian, but my dad's Scottish and I've been speaking English since I was a kid, so I got to skip that. Did you go to college?"

Oh. Right. Adult equals a degree. "No," he says. "I've been doing what I do since I was sixteen." Sixteen - eleven years in total. Looking at that prospectively, that's a really long time to go killing people, and that doesn't even cover the three years training with Fury was just a normal agent. He checks the clock and continues, "It's three forty. I should probably get going."

"Okay," she says, disappointed. "You're right. I better wash the dishes anyway."

As she hops off the counter, he says, "Well, see'ya."

"Next Friday?"

"I'll try."

He's an agent and can't make promises and probably shouldn't come back anyway. But she _is _eighteen and it's unfair that the two older people leave a pretty young girl outside, at night, in the middle of Manhattan. So he is perfectly justified in coming back next week for protection reason.

Because he is the good guy, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Well, here's chapter three. Not much I can say about this one than thank you for all the reviews/favorites/alerts. Hopefully this character will be longer than the last two.

Also, designing the cover photo thing was so much fun. xD I put a lot of work into it too (okay, so like ten minutes, but whatever). I wish it was bigger.

Disclaimer: Only own Briony and the other random OCs that pop up for plot convenience.

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Despite New York being a city of eight million people, it wasn't entirely rare to run into someone you know while walking around, especially in Manhattan. So when he runs into Briony not too far away from 42nd Street's Port Authority exit, he isn't all that surprised. And since the snow is falling so thickly and it's Time Square and the girl's wearing entirely white and grey and also happens to be blonde, he doesn't notice her until they literally walk into each other.

He starts to apologize when he sees who it is and interrupts himself mid-word with, "Oh, hey."

"Clint?" she says and pushes the hair from her face. "Oh my god, it's you! I didn't think I'd ever see you out of the diner."

This isn't true for him - he had a feeling it would happen eventually because that's just the way his life goes. Meet up with a girl four Fridays in a row and exchange numbers? Here she is in the daytime with no phones involved. Enjoy. "I guess," he says. "What're you doing out here in a storm anyway?"

She holds up the plastic bags in her hands. "Christmas shopping," she answers. "The boy's away for the weekend so I figured I'd have time to hide it."

Christmas. The odds of him having Christmas is slim considering that, through Thor and Loki, it's pretty much been proved that the holiday has no point. Not that he did anything religious with it before, or even as a kid - he and most of S.H.I.E.L.D. prove that your profession doesn't matter because getting presents is still worth it. Hurrah for whoever thought of the gifts under the tree thing.

"You're planning on walking home in this?" he asks, indicating the storm.

With a laugh, Briony answers, "I'm from Norway, Clint. New York is nothing in comparison. What about you? What're you doing out?"

He glances up at the sky. "I went for a walk," he says. "Then this happened."

"It's supposed to let up in a couple of hours," she tells him. "I don't live too far away if you want to get out of this. Inwood's probably closer than Stark Tower anyway."

Though she's right, going to a diner for the sole purpose of meeting up with a girl nine years young than him is weird enough and he doesn't need to to make it worse by going to her apartment. But on the other hand, his mind argues, he's freezing his ass off, Inwood is closer than Stark Tower, and he doesn't like the cold. "Okay," he says and shivers. "Need some help with the bags?"

"It's just a shirt and jeans. I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Definitely."

He feels like he should insist but he's way too cold to argue, so instead he just turns and falls into step with her as they walk. Taking a taxi would be easier, but he barely trusts New York cabbies when the sun is shining. Bruce's I-almost-Hulked-out-in-one story doesn't make him feel any better. "How'd a college freshman afford an apartment in Inwood?"

"Jack's grandma left it to him," she answers. "We've been dating since the beginning of senior year anyway and both went to New York City colleges so I figured why not, you know? At least I get private showers."

As someone who never went to college, he never had to deal with the communal showers (though over the past eleven or so years, he's gone through much worse) but he can't imagine their fun. Just to skeeve him out, Tony and Bruce decided to tell him "horror stories" of infections some of their classmates had gotten. They walk up Broadway and he slips his hands into his pockets, trying not to shiver and feeling embarrassed when he does because Briony seems completely unaffected. He says, "It probably isn't such a good idea to walk around wearing white in a snow storm. If you walk to close to the edge of the curb and a car skids, it probably won't -"

"Aw, are you worried about me?" she cuts in and smiles. "Don't worry, I'm fine. You can find your damsel in distress in someone else."

"I -"

A laugh. She's making fun of him, something most people don't do. And this brings him to the sudden realization that damn, he hasn't talked to a civilian girl with any sense of familiarity in a long time, and definitely not alone. He isn't sure if this should bother him or not, and decides not to think about it. She says, "I'm kidding, Clint," as they finally turn off Broadway. "Anyway, the apartment's kind of a mess. Just so you know in advance."

"Define mess," he says because Natasha view of a mess is cluttering not involved with the end of her bed, Maria Hill's was the inability to see more than twenty five percent of the room, and Bruce's meant more than one article of clothing on the floor.

"I'm putting up Christmas decorations," she answers. "There're half-filled boxes and wrapping paper all over the dining room table. And a few presents for people I'm required to get presents for. I have to get everything out of the way before I go back to Norway."

"When are you leaving?" he asks.

She says, "The twentieth," and leads him up the stairs of an apartment building. "And I come back on the twenty-ninth. So, no diner for a week straight, basically." Briony slides the key in the lock and pushes open the door. From inside the landing, he can hear a kid's show blasting in a different room and visibly cringes. She looked over at him in surprise and adds, "Sorry, yeah, my neighbor's can be pretty loud. But don't worry, you can't hear it from my apartment - it's the top floor."

Like usual, having some incorrectly connect the dots is a good thing. There are certain things in life that he doesn't want to have to explain a college student. "Sensitive hearing," he lies and follows to the top floor, wondering how such a semi-urban apartment building ended up in New York. "Is that normal?"

"Pretty much," she says, and they reach the top floor, furthest most apartment building.

The apartment layout itself is pretty standard - one bedroom and a living room kitchen area divided by a half wall. The walls are white and there's a fake tree shoved up in the corner, partially blocking one of the windows, and though there are boxes and uncoiled lights on the round table, he wouldn't really classify it a mess. "Give me your coat," Briony says, pulling off her own. He slips his off too and hands it to her, where she hangs the two on pegs beside the door. Her cheeks are flushed bright red from the cold and outside the window the snow is still steadily falling. "Um, yeah, sorry about the mess. Again."

"It really isn't all that bad," he tells her as she puts down her two shopping bags on one of the chairs. "Do you want helps with the lights or something? You know, get rid of some of it."

Again, she smiles. "No thanks," she says. "I'd say yes, but Katie promised to come over at like eight to help me." Clint thinks back and tries to remember the last time he put up Christmas decorations. Though he draws a blank, he knows he did it as a kid. She asks, "Want to watch a movie or something? The worst of the snow should be over in like two hours. I checked the weather this morning."

Though he knows he should say no, the snow is coming down hard, Clint hates the cold, and Briony's already adjusting the temperature on the thermometer, so what the hell? It's not like he has anything else to do. So he agrees and she smiles and next thing he knows, he's sitting on a squishy red carpet watching a movie called _War Horse_. There's an actor that looks remarkably like Loki.

Sometimes Clint thinks that life has a pretty morbid sense of humor.

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Okay, so next chapter is definitely going to be longer because it's going to have more than one part in it. Review please!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four! This one will definitely be longer than the last three, and finally starts getting the actual plot going! Consider the last three like a really long introduction. From now most of the chapters will probably have divisions too. Also, a bit of Natasha/Tony. And I know very, very little about Clint's background in the comics other than what state he's from.

...and now you'll see why I was so scared to use her in a fanfiction.

Disclaimer: Only own Briony and the other random OCs that pop up for plot convenience.

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Clint's first observation is that Briony isn't in front of the diner's entrance. His second is the yelling and he recognizes one of the voices as hers.

"...at work, Jack!" she's saying, and he realizes it's less yelling and more that her voice has shot up an octave, accent thickening. "It's two thirty in the fucking morning and they're out for ten minutes. Go away before I get -"

"Hey, I just came down here to surprise my -"

"Surprise me? Bullshit! This is still about Laurent, isn't -"

"Brie, that was your own damn -"

"Don't call me -"

"Just -"

"Ow, that hurts!"

Then Clint's at the edge of the alleyway and finds Briony standing there with a boy about her age who's gripping her upper arm way too tightly. He has a sudden memory of their first meeting and the bruise she had that same place. He clears his throat, getting the attention of both of them, and doesn't miss her look of relief. She looks on the edge of crying, something he doesn't expect because she's just so happy every time he sees her. The guy drops her arm.

"Who are you?" he asks and doesn't bother hiding how irritated he is.

Maybe it's because it's so early in the morning or maybe because he hates the guy without knowing a thing about him beyond that he's a business major, but he says, "A customer. But you know me as Hawkeye -" The surprise on his face is more than just a little satisfying. "- and if you don't mind, I'd _really _like a table."

"I'll talk to you in the morning, Jack," Briony says. "Okay?"

"Okay," the guy answers before looking at him. "Nice meeting you."

"Right."

There's an awkward silence until Jack leaves. Then he says, "Let's go inside. I want to take a look at your arm."

"It's nothing," she says, but he can see that she's shaking as she turns around and pulls open the kitchen door. "Anyway, want coffee or something because -"

At the moment he doesn't trust her with dishes and forming bruise on her arm already looks nasty. "I'm going to get you some ice," he says. "Don't argue, just sit down."

Unlike most of the people in his life, she actually listens and takes a seat on of the stools. "Sorry you had to see that," she says as he uses memory and process of elimination to find a Ziploc bag. "We just left off really pissed at each other earlier and he came by to see if I was okay and somehow it spiraled into a fight."

He has ice in the bag now and wraps a towel around it, wanting to call bullshit on her statement but deciding ultimately it isn't a good idea. "Here," he says, holding it out to her and when she accepts it and puts it on her arm, he takes a seat an the stool next to her. "Are you okay?"

She nods, but her bloodshot eyes betray her. "Yeah," she says. "Just a little annoyed, you know? I mean, I like people, you know? So what if I have a few friends who are guys and I don't feel like wearing turtlenecks for the rest of my life? It's like I have anything to show off anyway and is it really so bad that I gave Laurent a hug? And - and -"

She breaks down crying and reaches up with the hand not holding the ice and wipe away tears. "Sorry," she says. "I'm going to Norway tomorrow and I didn't want to leave like this again."

People aren't good. Clint decided this a long time ago, and even meeting the great Captain America couldn't change his opinion. "Move the ice," he says because he can't think of anything else. A guy controlling who his girlfriend hangs out with is pretty messed up, but not too unusual. Briony removes the makeshift ice pack and a hand mark is a dark red against pale skin. It's going to bruise bad. "Did he get you anywhere else?" She shakes her head and sniffles. "What time do you leave tomorrow?"

"Nine," she answers, pushing her hair from her face. "I have my stuff here, figured I'd leave after my shift since I have to get to the airport at six. But I forgot my toothbrush so I have to head back real quick."

Though he's near positive this is a lie, he decides not to call her out on it. "Buy one in the airport."

"What? Oh." The crying's subsided and she wipes her eyes again. "No, it's fine. He gets over it quick - Aw, don't look at me like that, Clint. It's not like he hits me."

Part of him wants to get involved, but the other part of him says it's a bad idea. Briony didn't strike him as the type of girl to stick around with a guy like that. "Is he always like that when he gets pissed?" he says and doesn't need to ask how often. Even before he knew what was going on, she gave him the answer with the pumpkin pie.

Briony shakes her head. "We normally just yell at each other. Worst was Halloween. We were at a party and I was wearing one of those sailor costumes you get Party City. I was talking to a few of my guy friends and he got jealous."

Though he knows he shouldn't get himself into this, he also knows he doesn't want her going back tonight, so he says, "You should call up the other waitress and say a flight opened early. We'll split and go see a movie."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not? Consider it a goodbye present."

"I'm going for nine days. How do you know any of the theaters will be open this late?"

"It's New York. City that never sleeps. A little night owl, like you." It's small, but he catches her smile. "There we go," he says, and slides off the stool. "But I'm being serious. Let's go see a movie."

Her smile grows and she pulls out her cell phone. As she sends her text, she asks, "What do you want to see?"

He shrugs. "That's up to you," he answers. "Only thing that I know is out is _The Hobbit._"

"Which is what I was going to pick anyway." Her cell phone beeps. "Okay, I can go. _Lord of the Rings _are my favorite movies, so I was meaning to see this."

"Hey, you can't steal my favorite movie," he says as she buttons up her coat and slides her messenger bag over her shoulder. "What about your bags?"

"This has my laptop, an NYU sweater, and a few necessities," she says, leading him outside and locking the kitchen door behind them. "My parents moved back to Norway not long after my graduation and half my wardrobe went with it. And my cat."

They head in the direction of the AMC not far away and he thinks that taking her out to a movie at two forty-five in the morning must prove that a very, very small part of him is attracted to her. Which really isn't good. "Why'd you move to America in the first place?" he asks, acutely aware of how closely they're walking to each other.

"Dad's job," she answers. "They transferred him to the American branch, but promoted him like two years later so it was back to Norway. By this point I'd already gotten a full scholarship to NYU, got an offer from my boyfriend to live with him since said scholarship didn't paying dorming costs, so I stayed here. Simple as that. Out of curiosity, where are you from?"

"Iowa." This isn't something he normally admits, but then again, not many people ask. "Small town, Iowa to exact. What about you? I mean, besides just the in-general Norway."

"It's literally the middle of nowhere," she answers. "It's rural and right up against a lake. Forty minute drive to my dad's work, but my parents own that house and didn't want to give it up to work any closer."

They turn on the avenue with the theater, times written on a sign outside, and he sees that they made it in just enough time to catch the last ten minutes of previews. "You probably won't get there exactly at six," he says.

Briony shrugs and Clint pushes open the door. The woman behind the cash register is half asleep. "Who wants to spend three hours in an airport anyway? I can get there in two and still be okay."

"Two tickets for the three o' clock showing of _The Hobbit_," he tells her, handing over his debit card before Briony can take out her money. The woman mumbles something sleepily and rings up the price, telling them theater six. "And don't say you could've paid; you've been giving me free food since October. A movie ticket is the least I can do."

She smiles and doesn't answer and they watch the movie with little commentary. In the end, after the movie and taking a cab with her to JFK, he's the one who gets the hug from her outside the airport doors. And he realizes that he's in way over his head.

.

Walking into the kitchen at one in the morning the day after the S.H.I.E.L.D. holiday party to find Natasha sitting on Tony's lap with a lopsided Santa hat on her head and watching what sounds like the sneezing panda video immediately skyrockets into his list of The Top Ten Strangest Things Agent Hawkeye Has Even Seen. They look up when he enters and it's a solid moment before anyone does anything.

Finally, Clint manages to say, "Hey," as if this is a total normal situation and Tony clicks something to make the video stop. The lighting in the kitchen in bright (because everywhere in Stark Tower is either all the way on or all the way off) and his head throbs. There's a reason why he hates hangovers.

"Hi," Natasha answers and slides off Tony's lap.

"Should I, um, leave?" he asks, the tension in the room making it too uncomfortable to just back out.

Tony glances at Natasha before answering, "You don't have to," and Clint's never seen the man look awkward before. Normally that's Bruce's territory.

"So," he says, and takes a seat across from them, "were you planning on telling someone?"

The question is directed at Natasha and from the look on her face, he can tell she gets it. "It didn't seem like a good idea," she says. "I'm not sure if it's against protocol."

"How long?"

"About three months," Tony says. "What, you haven't noticed that I haven't been with anyone after any of the parties?" He shakes his head. "Clint, _Hill _asked me about it and we barely see her. Woman troubles of your own or something?" Silence. "Wait - I was right?"

It's only because of years of practice that his face doesn't go completely red. "Not exactly," he says.

Natasha stares and he wonders how the hell this conversation flipped from the odd couple to him. "Guy troubles?" she says. "Is there something you aren't telling me?"

"Hey!"

A pause. Then, "_Girl _troubles?" and he visibly flinches. "Oh, fuck you. How'd you manage that?"

"She works at a twenty-four hour diner I go to," he answers, deciding that a full explanation will take too long. "And she eighteen, so it's not awful...I think."

"College student?" Tony says and again, he nods, mortified. "Okay, I've got see what this chick looks like."

He shouldn't have said anything, should've kept it to himself. "It's not like I have a picture."

The two of them exchange a look before Natasha says, "Well, any self-respecting college student will have a Facebook profile. Stark Industries has a business page you can sign into, right?"

"Guys -"

"'Course." Before Clint can protest, Tony's already typed in the email and password. "What's her name?"

Since it's one in the morning and he's fighting off a hangover, he knows he won't win against a stubborn Tony Stark. "Let me type it in," he says, getting off the stool of the island and walking over to their side. "I don't feel like telling you how to spell it."

Natasha moves over to give him room and he types _Briony Frederiksen _into the search bar and her picture is the first one to come up. He clicks on it and says, "Here. Her's name Briony."

Both his teammates look like they just found out the greatest news ever and he knows that he's never going to live this down. It wouldn't be such a problem if she didn't look so much like a kid, but of course the profile picture had to be her sitting in pajama pants and her university sweater, one of those red bows meant to be put on wrapping paper stuck near her ear and a little grey cat curled up in her arms. The cover photo is of a white cottage that must be her parents' house.

"She's cute," Natasha says. "What's the - oh."

Clint follows her gaze to the sentence _In a relationship with Jack Rowen. _"Well, yeah, there's that," he says, "and he's kind of a dick. She has a giant bruise on her arm because the jackass grabbed her too hard."

"What?"

"I was up there on the twentieth," he says. "They were fighting in the alley next to the diner because she talks to men other than him."

As Tony signs off he says, "I'd tell you to stay away from damaged women, but that would be a little - hey!"

"Serves you right," Natasha says and rolls her eyes. "Anyway, Clint, take this from another girl: she's only eighteen, let her figure the whole boyfriend thing on her own unless he actually hits her. After that, do whatever you want. It's not like she's under-aged."

"'Tash, she nine years younger than me."

"So?" Tony says. "Natasha and I are eight and half years apart."

"But she's twenty-seven, not eighteen!"

"Hey, don't talk about me like I'm not here."

By this point Clint just wants to hit his head on the table in exasperation but refrains. "I still feel like a fucking pedophile," he says.

Natasha shrugs. "Whatever, it's up to you."

He backs away from the island, remembering his original mission to get Advil and water but deciding now to say screw it. "I'll see you guys at a more decent hour," he says, mind flashing suddenly to the way Briony said _lovebirds. _And there is no way he wants to think of his teammates like that - or at least Natasha.

They both send him halfhearted goodnights as he leaves, but he doesn't pay attention, caring more about crashing in his bed and getting a relief from his headache and his thoughts.

.

Reviews? : D And tell me if I just fucked up in terms of Briony's character. I'm a little paranoid. . Also, yeah, the Natasha/Tony thing is from a different story.


	5. Chapter 5

So, I wrote this entire chapter in a notebook after a final, so it might be a little weird. On another note, I graduate this Friday! I'm so excited. Away from high school forever and ever, you know?

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own character and whatever OC pops up for convenience.

.

"Tony's holding a New Years' Eve party," Natasha tells him on the twenty-ninth, sitting on his bed at four in the morning because hell if any of them sleep like normal people. After accidentally crashing at ten he woke up at two with another pounding headache and asked JARVIS if Natasha was awake.

Clint doesn't like being bored.

"I know," he answered. "What's that got to do with anything?"

With a smirk, she says, "You can invite your little European girl."

Oh, naturally. Fuck this, he should've taken boredom. "College students usually have plans on holidays."

"So? You might as well try. Besides, I thought you'd want to get her away from that Rowen kid."

Though he doesn't know why she's pushing this, he decides against asking. The look on her face tells him that he doesn't want to find out. "I guess," he says, and thinks that Briony will probably yes. He grabs his cell phone off his end table. "If she comes and it turns into a disaster, I'm blaming you, got it?"

As he sends the text, Natasha asks, "Won't she be on a plane right now?"

He shakes his head. "Unless her plane was delayed, she'll have touched down about twenty minutes ago. We had an entire discussion during the before movie previews about why long flights through Delta suck."

"You've officially lost denial privileges," she says, and he ignores her.

His phone chirps. _sounds better then what i had_, the text reads. _what time?_

_I don't know_, he answers. _I'll ask Stark later._

"Told you," Natasha says, and Clint wonders why he surrounds himself with such diabolical company.

_you mean tony stark_?

_Yeah. Is that a problem_?

"Apparently," he answers. "But I still stand by the disaster warning."

_no will he mind?_

_Doubt it._

_awesome! my rides here. call you tomorrow?_

Next to him, Natasha snickers. "Looks like you've moved up the communication latter."

_Sure, bye. _

"Shut up, 'Tash."

_bye!_

"This is priceless, Clint." She stands and stretches. "I'll go tell Tony. It's only been twenty-four hours, so he should still be up."

"I'm never calling you up again - or down."

"Don't be silly. Of course you will." As she reaches the bedroom door, she adds, "I can't _wait _to meet this kid."

"Natasha!"

She laughs as she leaves and Clint groans, flopping backwards and staring up at the dull white ceiling.

.

"Clint!"

Briony meets him a block away from Stark Tower, and in her usual fashion, greets him with a smile. Though he hadn't realized it, he's really missed that face. "Hey," he says, and she wraps her arm around his. Besides her profile picture and that day in the snow, Clint's never seen her wearing anything other than her work outfit. The long coat and make-up makes her look a little older than eighteen, and, by default, makes him feel a whole lot less awkward.

"Thanks for inviting me," she says as they reach the building. "I got invited to this house party in New City, but didn't want to go. Am I dressed appropriately?"

They step inside and she unbuttons her coat, holding it open and looking a little abashed and all he can think is, _no wonder her boyfriend doesn't like her in tight clothes._ As horrible as it is, he understands for a moment, even if he can't understand the reaction. "Considering that this is mostly coworkers and dates," he answers, punching in his access code to the elevator and leading her in, "the majority are going to be half in uniform. We sort of had work today."

As he hits the button for the top floor, she untangles her arm. "You had work on New Years' Eve?" she says. "That sucks. You're sure no one - _what the fuck_?"

After going up and down these elevators for the past six months, he's forgotten that they were usually fast. Before he even has the chance to answer, the doors slide open and they're at the top floor. "Um," he says, "welcome to about twenty years in the future. Stark Tower is practically a time warp by this point."

"Jesus, and to think I'm living in an apartment built during World War I."

"You're early, Clint."

He looks up as the entire the actual room, and sees Natasha coming towards him, surprisingly _not _one of those people who didn't bother to change. "You weren't expecting us to hang out in the cold, were you?" he says, scanning the area for Tony or any of the other Avengers, half prepared for a double attack and finding none. "Anyway, this is Briony."

"Hey, kid," Natasha says, holding out her hand. "I'm Natasha Romanoff."

"Briony Fredriksen, nice to meet you."

"You too." She looks over to him and looks way too self-satisfied right now. "You should find Tony, he wants to meet her. And the others."

Briony looks up at him and for the first time since he's met her, she seems a little nervous. "How many people know about me?" she asks as Natasha drifts away.

"I can honestly say I have no idea," he answers, trying to ignore his embarrassment. "Tash and Tony, but my work has a worse rumor mill than a suburban high school. Do you want to -"

"So this is the human girl!"

Thor appears from nowhere, a very exasperated Jane trailing next to him. "You don't have to specify humanity to another human," she says to him, shaking her head, before turn turning attention on to them. She continues, "Hi, uh, Briony, right?" His, well, _date_ (because bringing her does make her count, whether he wants it to or not) nods. "Great! I'm Jane Foster, this is Thor."

"Thor - wait, what?"

Clint goes to explain, but doesn't get the opportunity because his teammate suddenly bursts out, "There's Norse blood in this one! You have my approval, Hawkeye."

"Thanks?"

Poor, horribly confused Briony moves closer to him, small hand slipping inside his. "Clint, what's going on? Do I really look _that _Norwegian?"

"Um -"

"Barton, did you explain anything?" Jane asks.

By this point he's so embarrassed that he's having trouble hiding it. "There's only so many things even I can say without sounding nuts," he answers. "Briony, do you want to meet the rest of my team? Of course you do, let's go find Tony. Or Steve. Or Bruce. Or someone." He lightly tugs of her hand and leads her away from the wall and Thor before he can go on about how wonderful it is that Clint's dating someone whose ancestry can apparently be traced back to the Vikings.

"You're going to tell me about that, right?" she says, and from the evident panic in her voice, it seems like he's going to have a very long talk with Natasha later. "Right?"

"We'll go down to my floor later and I'll explain," he tells her. "Promise. "It's only two and half hours until midnight."

"I'm holding you to that, Clint," she says seriously. "Got it?"

He repeats, "Got it," and spots the rest of his team conveniently clumped together. "Ready for the last awkward introduction? Then I swear to God, we'll just enjoy the partt and I'll explain everything, okay?"

"O - okay."

Holding back a sigh of relief, he lets go of her hand. "Tony," he says, "there's someone here that you wanted to meet."

Tony turns around, catching the attention of the others too, and his entire face lights up with something that can only be described as pure evil. "You must the girl from the diner," he says, and holds out his hand. "Tony Stark. This is Bruce Banner and Steve Rogers."

"Briony Fredriksen," she answers, and they shake. Oddly enough, she seems to relax a little when Tony usually has to opposite effect. "Have you seriously talked about me, Clint?"

"We found out from Tony yesterday," Steve says, and they shake too. His hand dwarfs hers, and Bruce's isn't much better.

"Yeah, well, he sort of talked about you once," Tony says with a shrug. "It was a two in morning thing. Happened through some bonding over the sneezing panda video on YouTube."

She smiles that damn contagious smile of hers and looks up at him again, standing close. "All makes sense now," she says. "I'm pretty sure anything can be accomplished through the power of cute animals."

"I've never seen it," Bruce says and Steve seconds him a moment later.

Tony looks over in surprise. "You have my lives, my friends," he says. "Clint, remind me me to remedy this later."

"What? Why me?"

"Because the odds of them reminding me are slim to none and I don't care enough to remember," he answers. "So, Briony, how're you liking the party?"

"It's, um, nice."

Before anyone can add anything, Clint adds, "We got bombarded by Thor. The whole Scandinavian thing made him pretty happy."

Steve says, "Don't worry, not all of us are that...intense."

"Good to know."

Wanting desperately to get away so that none of them say anything to freak out her out more, he says, "I'm going to show her the balcony. You know, favorite part of the tower and all."

Again, he leads her away and back towards the elevators so it isn't so loud. "What's going on?" she asks, confused and he actually feels bad for not thinking to tell her anything earlier.

"Do you want me to explain?" he says. "It probably won't take to long and you'll probably like the party a lot more if you know what's going on, right?"

"Yeah," she answers. "Okay. You sure?"

"Definitely. C'mon."

He brings her back inside and hits the button for eleven floors down. A moment later it comes to a stop and the doors open and they step into his floor and the sounds of the party fade. He takes her over to the living room where she takes a seat on the couch.

Now where to begin? Oh, yeah. Thor. "So," he says, trying to think of how to word it, "by this point would you really be surprised if I said Thor was _the _Thor? You know, God of Thunder and all that?"

For a moment, she just looks at him blankly, like she's trying to figure out whether or not he's joking. Finally, she says, "Whoa, wait, you're not kidding, are you?"

"Um, no. And he's dating a scientist. Try to get your mind around that one."

Though she still looked horribly freaked out, she didn't seem to think he's lying. "So you're saying that I just talked to the guy my country worshiped about a thousand years ago?" He nods. "Jesus, no wonder we had the longest pagan wars in Europe."

Clint holds back a sigh on relief. "You're taking this awfully calmly," he says. "Your not just humoring me, right?" She shakes her head and he takes a seat next to her. "Sorry for not giving you a head's up. I didn't realize he'd be able to figure out just from looking at your. Or whatever he did. So, are you a little less...um, confused?"

"No," she answers. "Not at all. Actually, I'm even more confused. I mean, my parents are Lutheran, and I've been an atheist from about the moment I knew what 'God' was, so yeah, this is a little hard to take in right now. But I'm not all that surprised. Captain American - Steve Rogers, whatever - he's from the Forties, right? How's _he _taking it?"

"A lot worse than you," he says, and runs his fingers through his hair. It needs a cut. "Sort of just another thing to top off waking up in the wrong in century. How old are your parents?"

"In their early fifties."

"You probably shouldn't bring this up then."

"Wasn't planning on it."

A short silence falls. Then, "You sorry you came?"

Again, she shakes her head. "No," she says. "Finding out that the major world religions are all bullshit total beats out beer pong with a bunch of drunken ex-football players who can't aim they're so plastered. That wasn't meant to be sarcastic by the way."

Damn, was that close. According to Natasha, he's lost all denial privileges, and maybe she has a point because he's starting to hate her boyfriend for simply existing as well as for being a complete bastard. "Do you want to go back to the party or chill here?" he asks.

"It's up to you."

"Let's go."

They go upstairs and mingle and, somehow, when the Ball drops, he ends up getting a midnight kiss.

.

Yeah, I wrote this with a headache, so it's a little weird, I know. I probably should tell you guys that, should I?

Review, please!


	6. Chapter 6

I graduated high school finally! Unfortunately, I have a splitting headache and it's about a hundred degrees, so I probably shouldn't be writing but feel like doing so anyway! Also, I turned eighteen yesterday and had to break into my friend's car with a bendy pole from a lawn ornament we bought a dollar store.

Disclaimer: Just own the people that are not from the movie.

.

"Sorry for making you come," Briony tells him on a Wednesday evening not long after a normal person's dinner time as they sit on the roof of an odd appliance store he frequents, sipping coke and sharing a bag of tortilla chips. "I just really needed to get out of the apartment and my friends are currently scattered across America."

She looks like a wreck, exhausted with her hair messed up in a way that was less I-rolled-out-of-bed sexy and more like someone tugged it, and her eyes bloodshot. "It's fine," he says. "I didn't really feel like being inside in the first place." After a moment, he adds, "What happened?"

Sighing, she takes a chip and answers, "Jack and I had a fight and it got a little out of hand. It was over something stupid, and I worded something bad so I accidentally made it sound like was contemplating leaving him and he pointed out I'd have nowhere to go since it's too late to apply for housing and it's not like pay for it. I think he's convinced I'm cheating on him. And I guess he - well, now there's this whole added complication of - And I just, well, _forget__, _I guess that culturally I'm a lot more affectionate than he is to other people."

"That isn't exactly -" He starts before remembering what Natasha said. "_Are _you planning on breaking up with him?"

"No," she says immediately. Then her face falls, and miserably she tells him, "Yes. Or - I don't know. I mean, he's got a point. I legally own nothing of that apartment and all my friends are in the dorms. I can crash with Katie and Laura, but not for any more than three days."

Clint takes a sip of soda, waiting for the caffeine to kick in because by this point he's so tired he feels drunk. That hasn't happened since the Chitauri invasion, but for some reason he hasn't been able to sleep in the past week and half and is starting to feel like Edward Norton in beginning of _Fight Club_. Except, without the whole split personality thing, so he hasn't quite begun to loose time yet, but it feels like he's starting to get there. "I can probably help you out if you want," he says. "You know, with the whole living situation thing."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Would you bother to do that." She smiles, bright and cheerful and teasing. "Aw, does Mr. Superhero have a crush?"

Perhaps a little too quickly, he answers, "It's just that you don't deserve that. I had a neighbor as a kid who was in a similar situation, and it didn't exactly end...well."

"So it's a personal experience thing, then." He shrugs. "I get that. The thing is, he wasn't really like this in high school. Now I'm confused as hell so figure I must've done something wrong but I've fucking analyzed what I could've done so many times and I keep drawing a blank. And, I don't know, I keep expecting him to go back to my Jackie, I guess. But after tonight - I mean, God, my head hurts like hell and I don't know if I can deal with this anymore."

"Then don't," he says, reaching over without any real thought and moving her hair out of her face. Her temple and by her ear are a fading red. "Fuck, Briony, did he grab you?"

She doesn't move his hand, and averts her eyes to the ground. "No," she says. "I had my hair tied to the side and I was leaning against the door frame. He slammed the door and I moved out of the way fast enough but I guess my hair was caught on the latch and got stuck. I was taking a step back and this happened. Hurts like hell."

"Is that when you called me?" he asks, and she nods and he's starting to get a picture of the evening in his head that he doesn't like. "Great. Okay, I don't want you to go back tonight."

As he takes his hand away, she says, "Are you going to make me?"

There's something of a challenge in her voice and a sneaking feeling tells him that this isn't the worst incident she's had. "No," he answers. "But I don't think it's a good idea."

For a moment, she doesn't say anything. Then, "All my friends are back with their families."

He rolls closed the tortilla chips and stands, holding out his hand and she takes it. "I encompass an entire floor as my place of residence," he says as he helps her up. "I can take the couch in the living room."

"I'm littler," she says. "I can take the couch because I think I'll take you up on your offer. We'll have a slumber party. Hot chocolate and movies and thoughtless gossip."

When she doesn't let go of him right away, he feels uncharacteristically and unreasonably pleased. "As long as the movie isn't a chickflick," he says with a small smile.

"You're safe, then," she says, releasing his hand to navigate down the rusty fire escape, "because I hate those - or most, at least. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what classifies as movie as one."

"Neither do I." He reaches to ground first and helps her down so that he doesn't have to bother trying to pull down the latter. "I have an extra toothbrush," he adds, "and I can give you something to wear."

They pass a garbage can, and she tosses in the soda bottle. "Awesome," she says. "I hate this shirt. I don't know what it's made of, but it itches like hell. I think I might be allergic or something."

When the reach Avengers Tower (apparently Tony was too lazy to fix the name at the top of the building and decided that 'A' was for Avengers now) ten minutes later, and make their up to his room, the first thing he does it throw her a pair of unused boxers and a random S.H.I.E.L.D. employees shirt from five years ago and was now too small. She's smiling contently as she exits the bathroom and he should've thought this through a little more because there's something really hot about her wearing his clothes. She says, "Thank you," and is completely oblivious to his inner struggle.

"Don't worry about it," he says, glancing at the clock above the television and wondering how eleven managed to sneak up on him so fast. She has her hair tied back loosely and without it covering his face, he can see that the irritated red is already turning into the purple-blue of a bruise. "You feel any better?"

No shoes, a shapeless black shirt, and no makeup - she looks even more like a kid than usual but it's stopped feeling so fucked up by this point, something he blames Natasha for. She nods and says, "Yeah, way better. This was a good idea, so thanks. Really. I mean, it was weird, my mind just went straight to you, which I guess makes - Fuck it, I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. Do you have painkillers?"

He tells her to follow him, and leads her to the kitchenette. Since he pretty much has a cabinet devoted to Advil, he doesn't need to look as he takes out a bottle and tosses it to her. "Do you want to go to sleep or did the caffeine wake you up too much?" he asks as she unscrews the top and gets herself a glass of water, because Coke's _finally _kicked in and he hopes she'll say no.

After swallowing down the pills (gel, for fasting acting relief!), she answers, "Night owl, remember? I'm more awake right now that I'll ever be during the day. What about you?"

"I'm fine," he says. "I think I've officially hit over-tired, so the odds of me sleeping are pretty slim."

"We should do something, then," she says, "because standing around in a half-kitchen's kind of boring. And cramped." Though he goes to answer, his mind draws up a blank. And she seems to notice, because she adds, "Well, what do you normally at eleven o' clock at night when you're hyped up on some form of caffeinated and don't have company?"

"Honestly?" he says. "I just practice with my bow."

Again she smiles, and it's the type that falls under the terrible-idea-at-midnight category. "Then teach me or something!" she says, and they're both just _so _obviously overtired that it occurs to him for the first time that she might be less of a night owl and more of an insomniac. "That's got to count as entertainment, right?"

Ten minutes later she's pressed up against him while he ghosts her, stealing to movement of her arms to show her how to shoot. At five feet tall and a whole eight inches shorter than him, she fits right under his chin and it's easy enough to maneuver her. Her hair smells like some sort of fruity shampoo and he keeps remember how she said _the added complication of_, torturing himself against his will as he wonders if he's that added complication. But the thing is that this has to count as flirting and he's see her around enough other guys to know she isn't much of a flirt, so there's always that possibility that -

In the end, they fall asleep in front of the television in his room at two in the morning, the bad French art film a thousand times more effective than any sleeping pills, and the couch goes unused.

.

Clint is not like Thor, who has Jane to say goodbye to when they're called off, or Tony and Natasha who fight together, or Bruce who is too afraid to have someone to wish him luck - he never cared, but life just worked out that there was never anyone to wait for him. So it's unfamiliar when at nine the next morning, she's standing in the bathroom doorway with a fluffy white towel wrapped around her body and very obvious fear in her eyes.

"It's over the Hudson right now," he's saying, "so it shouldn't take to long. But just...stay here until the problem's over, okay? Avengers Tower is currently the safest place in New York and -"

"You'll be coming back for sure, right?" she asks, and he thinks to himself, _how the fuck does Thor manage this every time_? "Right, Clint?"

He nods. "I do this for a living, I'll be fine," he promises. "It'll be over in no time."

Though she still doesn't seem convinced, she raises herself up and kisses his cheek. "Don't you _dare _not come back," she tells him.

"I won't," he says, and then he's gone.

Later, after the sea-whatever is dead and he's down half a quiver and he says goodbye to his very exhausted teammates:

He heads up to his room, the least battered of the normal people and probably the least tired of all of them. And he's barely a step out of the elevator before a small body collides with his and, instinctively, he slips his arms around Briony to keep her from falling because her own are around his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist and he hasn't held a girl like this in a _long _time. She's babbling, and it takes him a moment for him to tune in, but he catches, "And I saw Natasha hit the water but couldn't see you and fuck the reporter for not giving up dates on everything and I've worried about you every time, but I was just so -"

She's in the change of clothes he'd given her before she disappeared into the bathroom and now she smells like him rather than strawberries. "I said I'd come back," he tells her, profoundly happy that she isn't crying, "didn't I?"

"Yeah," she says, and he realizes that she's pressed up against his bow which must not be too comfortable, "but when does anyone keep their promises?"

This unnerves him, but he puts the feeling aside until later when he's fully capable of thinking and sets her down. "I do," he answers simply, though the statement isn't exactly true. "And I'm usually up on a rooftop, so the news never shows me."

With a shaky nod and deep breath, she says, "I should probably go back to the apartment. I think - Well, during the reel I decided that, yeah, Jack and I have to break up. I'll call Katie or something and figure out how to apply for housing late. It'll be hard getting to the diner since she lives in Mid-State New York and paying, but I'm good at figuring shit out."

Somehow, he finds himself offering the stupid thing he has in a while. "You can stay here temporarily," he says. "Until you get housing when school starts. I'll talk to Tony, and I can totally get a mattress to set up on the floor to sleep on. It isn't long before the semester starts, right?"

"Right," she answers, evidently as shocked as he is. "Wait, I mean, you really don't have to. I can say that I have a dying grandma or something and I need to go back to Norway for two weeks or something."

It takes something like an hour before he convinces her that, yeah, he really doesn't mind he doubts Tony won't either and that she better get her stuff together when Jack _isn't home _and back the fuck up near the door just in case. The last part she stubbornly says won't be necessary, but something's still telling him that this wasn't the worst incident and that he's hit her at least once.

.

"You really invited her here?" Tony asks when he brings up the subject of a mattress. Clint shrugs as a way of saying yes, and his friend doesn't seem incredulous or all that against it, either. Not that he expected him to be - Jane was already staying there, which he didn't have a problem with, and the place was big enough anyway. "Okay. There's probably a spare in your closet, you know."

Oh, yeah, that makes sense. Of _course _Avengers Tower would have backups of everything. Because Tony has a solution for every possible situation. "Right," he answers. "Just thought I should check with you."

"Does the girl sleep like a normal person?" he says, and Clint shakes his head. "She'll fit right in then. Now I have to go, unfortunately, to a press conference. You know where the first-aid kit in your room if you need it."

"Right," he repeats, phone already out to give Briony the official okay. "See'ya."

_hell be home in 30min_, the text reads. _is this a good idea_?

_yeah,_ he answers as he hits the button for the elevator with his elbow, and feeling probably about as nervous as her because what was he thinking, he keeps telling himself. It feels somewhat rushed, too, like Natasha called it in some whacked out form of real life, direct foreshadowing that he was too stupid to see himself. And that was before she met her too, which makes him feel even more clueless and that isn't too far from reality, either. It's a little easier now, though, since he's up and admitted to himself that some ordinary college student that normally he'd never looked twice at has wormed her way into his head so completely that it has to count as ridiculous. Everyone seems to think it's hilarious, but no one seems to have a problem with it.

And, there's that at least.

Five minutes, and he sends another text of, _Do you want me to meet up with you? In case. _

A moment passes, the length of a heartbeat and his phone beeps. _i can fit all my stuff in a backpack and handbag. i think ill be fine. _

He doesn't like it, but he agrees and flops back on his bed, giving himself forty-five minutes before heading down in the lobby. He's worried about her in a similar way to how he worries about Natasha when she goes undercover into a group with a very specific type of reputation, but at least in this context it's rational.

Because Briony can take care of herself, it seems like, even if she's put up with this guy's personality flop since around September, and she definitely isn't stupid, but comparatively, she's helpless. Like his parents were, and that neighbor, and the teenage boy whose head he once held up to in order to get his father to surrender because assassins are far from honorable. She can't figure out a way to cross the universe the way that Jane can, and she can't willingly throw herself into danger the way Natasha or Hill do or any of them, man or woman. Instead she's a kid with a contagious smile and an ordinary but interesting life who wears bow from presents in her hair and can figure out Russian grammar in fifteen minutes with the right teacher.

And maybe it's just that - brilliant in simplicity and naivety and he could never like someone he works with in the way he does her because, no matter how much everyone tries to hide it, they're all a little broken. He certainly is, with his panic attacks if he catches the sound of a kid's show and he wakes up in a sweat sometimes, struggling in the way that Tony does to get himself out of that half-nightmare, half-concrete matter reality. Briony isn't a soothing balm or anything like that, but it doesn't stop how utterly fascinated he is by the way she can smile and not look like she's recovering from someone taking her brain out and shaking it up before shoving it back in. Not that you ever _really _recover from that, but he likes to pretend that it'll happen eventually.

After forty-five minutes are up, he heads down to lobby and his mind starts screaming again, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, but he sits on a table and not long after, she enters, backpack thrown over one shoulder and the strap of the bag hanging over the other. She looks just as rustled as before and the way she holds herself suggests her right side hit the doorknob and maybe naivety isn't such a good word for her. He slips off the table where he sits when she sees him. Her blue eyes are impossibly wide. Before he can do anything, her arms find a way around him and her narrow little shoulders are shaking in a way that suggests she's in a lot of pain.

"I've got a first-aid kit upstairs," he tells her.

.

So...yeah, I think this might be my longest chapter. I went through about five different moods while writing this, and I think they're all pretty obvious.


	7. Chapter 7

So, first week of summer and I'm sick. Meh. Just my luck. Anyway! Chapter seven...Honestly, I didn't think I'd make it this far. I tend to just sort of drop anything that isn't a one shot, but this seems to be coming along fine. : )

Oh, and the beginning...personal experience. Like, personal experience by about ten minutes before I wrote this and it pissed me off so much that I found myself including it, even if I don't normally cross real life with anything I write.

Disclaimer: Just own the people not from the movie.

.

When Clint enters his floor the day after Briony moved in, he finds her sitting on the couch with her laptop fulfilling the purpose of its name, and her phone pressed between her shoulder and her ear. Her eyes flick over to him and she sends him a smile as she says, "Hi, this Briony Frederiksen, and I have an inquiry about second semester freshman housing." There's a pause and she continues, "Oh - Yeah, I am a first semester sophomore, but that's because of AP testing. I'm a first year student."

He goes into the kitchenette to get himself some water, not wanting eavesdrop but his hearing is too good not to. "Yes, I know it's late," Briony is saying. "My? Oh - four-six-five-seven-nine-nine-eight." Without meaning to, he memorizes the number. "Yes, I _know _my scholarship doesn't cover housing costs. I have the laptop in front of me, I can see the expense. What? Oh - Okay. Thank you anyway, Ms. Muller."

A sigh follows the sound of a laptop closing and he goes back into the living room. She puts the computer on the coffee table and twists around. "Clint," she says. "I need English help. I have no idea what this woman just said."

"Shoot," he answers, circling the couch and taking a seat next to her.

"What does lacunae mean?"

Lacunae? Why the fuck would a college adviser use a word like that? "Like a break or interval, or a missing part of a manuscript," he says. "It's plural for lacuna. How'd she use it?"

Briony looks down and fidgets. "She told me to call back at regular lacunae to see if any rooms opened up. Wouldn't interval have been easier to say? I mean, I'm pretty sure that was a word on my SATs and SATs vocabulary is not meant to be used in real life unless you want to seem totally pretentious, right?"

"I don't even think that was used in the right context, but don't quote me on it," he says and thinks, people are fucking idiots. Because the odds of a normal person - let alone a college student - knowing what a random, unused word was pretty slim (he only knew it because he had to take a crash course in law for an assignment once), so saying it would already be a dick move. But take into consideration that Briony has a pretty blatant non-American accent and he's pretty sure the woman was compensating for something. "So I'm taking it that Mrs. Lacunae was completely useless?"

With a nod, she answers, "Well, it isn't really her fault. I have two and half weeks before school starts up again and all the dorms are filled. I guess I'll either send an email or call every day. Some _has _to leave, right?"

He doubts it, because this is college they're talking about and from what he managed to gather, last minute-ing never worked out will for anyone, but he decides against saying anything. "You'll make it work," he says and she moves some hair from her face. The bruise by her ear looks worse. "Call tomorrow, maybe you'll talk to someone else."

"Yeah," she says, but doesn't seem too sure. "I'll figure something out. Thank you, again, for helping me out, by the way. I really can't think of where I would've been otherwise."

"Don't worry about it," he says. "I wouldn't have offered if it was a problem."

"Okay," she answers. "If it ever turns out to be a issue, just tell me and I'll -"

He gives her The Look and she shuts up. "Trust me," he says, "it's fine."

Again, she says, "Okay," but doesn't look convinced. "Well, I better get to work. I asked my boss to put me on overtime so I can afford the dorm."

"I'll be either here or with Tash when you come back," he tells her. "See'ya."

Briony embarrassed isn't something he commonly sees, so it's pretty surprising that her cheeks go red as she leans over and gives him a quick kiss of the cheek. Before he can react, she squeaks out a, "Bye!" and leaves.

_The added complication of -_

And, God, does Clint hate himself sometimes.

.

Clint's first thought when he wakes up is, _We have to stop falling asleep together._

Because here's Briony, lying next to him with her eyes half open and they'd crashed together because she got back from a nine hour shift of dealing with idiots to make enough money to get her own place and he'd dealt with stupid mission that resulted in an injury, leaving him whacked out on painkillers. They'd been talking and at one point they fell asleep he doesn't know, but he's pretty sure they were both slaphappy and the coffee they shared with Tony and Natasha probably didn't help. What they fuck they were talking about is also lost on him, but in the dull, painkiller-influenced part of his mind, he thinks he really wouldn't mind doing this every morning.

And apparently the slaphappy feeling hasn't gone away before after a moment of awkwardly blinking at each other he suddenly starts laughing and she giggling, burying her face in the pillow. He rolls on his back, looking up at the ceiling as the oddly exclaimed happiness quiets for the two of them and she says, voice muted by the fluffiness, "God, what the hell is wrong with us?"

"I ask myself that every day," he answers and she moves her face, turned to look at him. "Got to say, laughing like a crazy person isn't the worst way to wake up in the morning."

She smiles. In the half-light of the ending dawn, her eyes look silver and he knows he still must be high to at least some extend, because he has the weird temptation to play connect the dots with the freckles across the bridge of her nose. "True," she says. "And I shotty first shower."

Then she's up, grabbing a pair of clothes from the top drawer (because she's neat as hell, managing to fit all her belongings in one drawer and a corner of his closet) and disappearing into the adjacent bathroom. His mind still feels hazy and normally he takes a shower the moment he wakes up, a habit left over from childhood, but he needs to get rid of this feels asap and heads into the kitchenette to get another cup of coffee.

Briony is in and out of the shower ten minutes, and joins him not long after. They smile, mumble out the mandatory good mornings and switch places. The bathroom smells like her shampoo.

"I'm taking it that the Vicodin's worn off," she says as he limps into the living room, wearing loose sweatpants and no shirt because his right side feels exactly like what happened - he got hit in the side with a broken fragment from a rock Bruce threw like a fucking _Left 4 Dead_ Tank. "Did you take more?"

"No," he answers, sitting down on the couch and holding back a wince. "I've been through worse without painkillers and I don't like not being able to think. I didn't say anything stupid last night, right? What did we talk about anyway?"

With a shrug, she says, "I don't even know. At one point I think we talked about how Jeff Goldblum plays himself in every movie or something, but other than that I really don't know. I didn't really have a thought process either. Do you want me to bind your ribs or something?"

"Do you know how?" She nods, and he hesitates. Normally he says fuck it, but since enemies typically don't reach him that high up in the air either because they're land-bound or Tony or Thor takes care of it so he truthfully isn't all that used to it. And he's pretty sure getting whacked in the side with a slab of sidewalk (and thank fucking God that the Avengers themselves don't need to pay damages to stupid suburban neighborhoods) is the worst that he's had to deal with in a while. Not the worst ever, but close. "Fine. You know where the bandages are right?"

But she's already up before he even really makes his decision, and a moment later she's back, bandages from the first aid kit in her hands. Natasha's done this to him a thousand times and vice versa, so when she sits in front of him, he adjusts the way he's sitting and holds his arms a little way from his body to make it easier, ignoring the stab of pain that runs up his side. "This is going to hurt," she says as she unravels a bit, though it's completely unnecessary. And apparently his face shows it too because she rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean."

"So you do you know how to - ow!"

"Sorry," she says. "That was a little rough. And I've broken my ribs twice - one during soccer and the other while learning how to snowboard. I've done this my dad after a minor car crash, too. You should've let me do this last night."

"Why didn't I?" She shrugs. "Right. How's the housing search going?"

Immediately her face falls. "Four days left and no dorm's opened yet, and it seems like no matter how much I work, all New York apartments are out of my price range."

"You can stay here longer if you want," he says. "Everyone likes you and - oh fuck."

She repeats, "Sorry," and pulls off the medical tape, sticking it on. "All done!"

He looks and sees that, yeah, she did a pretty good job. Quick work, too. "Thanks," he says. "Really. Also, I'm going to risk a shirt because I feel like a girl in a corset right now."

Again, she starts laughing and he tries to keep himself from doing the same because unlike this morning, it'll hurt like hell. He goes to stand but she stops him, hand on his shoulder with, "Stay here, Elizabeth, I'll get it. Maybe I'll kiss it all better."

Though he wants to protest (because she's a _guest_, dammit), he's a little too surprised to even so much as try.

.

"I don't even know what I'm reading right now."

"That's because it's Shakespeare, Brie." She looks up from her battered, secondhand copy of King Lear that Tony randomly had on one his bookshelves for reasons not even he can remember, and it takes Clint a half-moment to realize why. "Oh," he says. "Sorry, it just slipped out."

"It's fine," she says. "I'm not used to it, that's all. My parents call me litt fjær - little feather, and my high school friends called me Fredriksen, so, yeah, I don't normally get nicknamed. You can call me Brie, though. I don't mind."

He has a feeling that "I don't mind" translates to "I like it" but he might be reading too much into it. So he answers, "All right. Brie then. Doesn't the book have those translation notes thing? I remember those from high school."

"Yeah, but they're little and hard to read," she says before putting the book down. "Fuck it, I'm using SparkNotes. I survived AP junior and senior year with that."

Because Clint started out at S.H.I.E.L.D. young, he did the last three official years as a sort of homeschooling type of thing, but he remembers reading _Romeo and Juliet_ as a freshman, and that was thirteen years ago. Thirteen years ago was when SparkNotes was first created and he doubts that more than ten people in his school knew what it was. Realizing that, he suddenly feels really, really old, and twenty-seven-year-olds are not supposed to feel old.

He says, "I snagged an audiotape from my teacher."

"Did it help?"

Since he doesn't really remember, he shrugs. "I got an A on the in-class essay," he says because for some reason he hasn't forgotten that. "It had something to do with whether or not the characters deserved their endings."

"What did you say?"

"That's the point of a tragedy."

Briony opens her laptop and steals another piece of sushi from the plate. His dad always said that it's unhealthy to eat late at night, but he's been doing it for years and is perfectly fine. "I like comedies, not tragedies," she says. "I mean, I don't mind people dying in stories or anything. The _Harry Potter _series are my favorite books, and _The Book Thief_ is pretty high up there too. There's enough to be depressed about in real life, you know? And I'm not good with the whole catharsis thing."_  
_

He doesn't like tragedies either, doesn't like that the point of a tragedy is that everyone dies and if not everyone, at the least the protagonist. And protagonists, for the most part, are "good" people, and he's put enough arrows through men and women's faces to know that books tend to get things all wrong. Good and bad are all about picking sides, for the most part (people like rapists and serial killers and mass murdering dictators and whoever writes for Fox News aren't good no matter how you look at it).

He says, "I'm not good at it either. The catharsis thing, I mean."

She gives him a small smile and there's an edge of irony about it that he appreciates. "We'd suck in therapy, wouldn't we?" she says, and he knows he does already. "Okay, screw everything, SparkNotes hates me. It isn't loading."

"When's your birthday?" he asks, realizing with no chronological thought process that he's known this girl since the beginning of October, knows that her favorite color is yellow and she prefers cats to dogs and is horribly afraid of spiders and being buried alive of all things, but doesn't know the day she was born.

"July fourth," she answers. "I know, the Norwegian girl born on America's Independence Day, but whatever. What about you?"

"September fifteenth," he says. "Yeah, nothing significant about that I think."

A moment of typing and she says, "There's a bunch of stuff for September fifteenth here. A lot about World War II, and some Norwegian composer was born that day. I'm too lazy to read through everything else. Oh - and it was the first time tanks were used in the First World War. Doesn't that just make you feel _so _special?"

"Battle of Somme?"

"Yup."

"Oh, definitely."

The laptop is shut again in a defeated sort of way and she crosses her arms over the tabletop. "You know," she says, "I thought I was pretty good at English for a girl who's not from America or Britain or whatever, but apparently I suck. Guess that AP test was just luck."

Pessimism or negativity in general is not something he's used to or expects when it comes Briony. "You'll do fine," he says, because he can't think of anything else. "Like I said, it's Shakespeare. I read somewhere that he made up a ton of stuff to make his sonnets work and stuff, so most people can only understand about seventy percent of whatever they read."

Looking down, she tells him, "That still just...I don't know. God, I say that a lot. It's just - well, I always thought I was pretty smart. Normal-person smart, yeah, but still. Now I'm in college and unless it's a class relevant, I'm passing on cram studying and writing rough drafts in one night and fuck if I know. And on top of all the stupid decisions I've -" She stops before continuing, "Sorry, that was depressing. I think I'm just tired."

Except for Natasha and that one time with Tony and a few other incidents, people don't normally talk to him. Not like this. Frankly, they're a little scared of him, same way they are with all the Avengers even before they were part of this team and once this hits him, he gets it. Gets that, in his own way, he's a little in love with this kid and the turning point on top of everything else is that she's okay with him, with who he is and what he is even though she knows that he's a fucking assassin. He doubts it's slipped past her that what he does for a living is killing people to make the world safer and she's still willing to spill to him that she feels stupid.

This truth is realized so abruptly that it almost physically _hurts. _

"It's fine," he says because it totally is. He likes that she's talking to him and she said herself that she isn't good at that whole catharsis thing, which means in a bizarre twist of fate that she trusts him. And, in an equally messed up way, he trusts her too. That's more than he can say for most people. "Seriously, Brie. If you want my opinion, I think you've stressed yourself out. New York's overwhelming to someone who isn't a native on a good day and you're trying to balance what's almost a full time job by this point on top of one of the best colleges in country. Try cutting back your hours, you don't have to worry about rent or anything and no one here's going to - well, no one's going to hit you. And I'm pretty sure that this counts as a smart decision."

He can tell that she's shocked and he thinks for a moment that he said something wrong. Then, "Wow. No one's ever said that to me before."

"What?"

"Well, I don't normally say anything like that, but unless it's my parents, people usually agree with me, or say stop whining."

Her ex-boyfriend was abusive and from he's managed to gather, the few people she considers friends knew and never bothered to do anything about it and because she's so genuinely happy, the mental negative repercussions went straight over his head for the first time in a long time. Not the abuse bit, but the friend bit and he's starting to think that his own abnormal friendships might've contributed.

"That isn't whining," he says. "That's an actual - You're telling me that you haven't said anything yet?" She shakes her head. "Things like Shakespearean analysis can be explained and no one's offered to help you?"

Again, she shakes her head. "The time you helped me with Russian past tense was the last time anyone other than the Writing Center has helped me and I stopped going after the tutor they hooked me up with flaunted that she was smarter than me. I guess I have a talent of attracting people like that. Either that, or it's just college."

"For now cut back on your work hours. I'm sure you'll figure everything and before you hit another roadblock, you can always ask me for help."

"I'm pretty sure you've done enough for me."

"I don't mind."

"I'm going to bed."

"Okay."

They stand and she begins to walk away before he, without really thinking, takes her hand so she turns around. That smile of hers is so blatantly real and she says, "You're pretty amazing, Clint."

"You too, Briony."

.

Just getting this out of way: Briony's not depressed or anything, just a little worn down from stress. I figure that happens to everyone.


	8. Chapter 8

So, yeah. This was written on my phone at about four in the morning. Which means the first section is really short. Let's see how this goes.

Also, this story just got added to a community. That means all my stories but one are added to at least one! lol, I feel special. xD

And okay, real talk for a moment: I know I've got a ton mistakes in this (most sentence structure mistakes are on purpose since it's borderline stream of consciousness) but for me that's kind of inevitable. I legitimately try to proofread but I must memorize my own writing or something because most go straight over my head. I've been like this since I was a kid. Like, to the point my teachers told my mom that I might be dyslexic until my second grade teacher realized I read the fastest in my class by a long shot. Logically, I know I should get a beta reader. Really, I do. But I don't trust people with my work. I've had too many "editors" try to change my story to _their _style to the point that my work will lose meaning. So please, know that I understand it and try really, really hard to fix it.

I apologize if that sounded mean.

Disclaimer: Just own the people not from the movie.

.

Clint walks into his floor some time around one in the morning, carrying bagels because he passed a place that was open and he'll want to eat at one point in the normal-people morning, to find Briony asleep on the carpet. The television is on, playing reruns of _Friends_, and she has a text book in front of her. From this distance he can't see what it says, but he recognizes the letters well enough to guess it's German. Not wanting to wake her, he places the bag of bagels quietly (no easy feat, what with said bag being paper and crinkly) on the table before walking over. She's in a pairing of pajama pants and a shirt, with her hair strewn everywhere and a pencil in her hand.

He's done enough to things to people in their sleep that he knows how to move her without waking her up. Gently, he takes the pencil from her fingers and twists her slowly before picking her up. She's almost unnervingly light for a college freshman, despite being small and skinny and how it's pretty obvious in the first place. She mumbles something in Norwegian and snuggles against him.

He thinks mission accomplished when he manages to get her into bed, sort of under the covers, but as he goes to turn away, there's a tug on his sleeve and sleepy, "_Bli her_."

Unfortunately does _not_ happen to know Norwegian despite living with one, so all he can answer is, "What?"

Brie rubs one eye. "Sorry," she murmurs. "I said stay." When he doesn't answer right away, she continues, "It's not like we've never done it before and I'm cold. Don't you dare say the joke I'm sure you've thought of."

God, she knows him too well. And while he's perfectly aware that he should be the responsible one and just turn up the thermostat, he finds himself consenting. "Let me just grab something that isn't jeans first."

She humans an affirmative and when he's back five minutes later, in sweats with the mandatory hygiene requirements filled, she still up and sends him a small smile. "Thanks," she says quietly before pulling the blanket up to her neck and curling into a ball.

A moment later she's asleep and he's out not too long after.

.

"Fury easily could've sent someone else to do that," Natasha says, tying back her hair, and Clint knew she isn't complaining about the work, just how insultingly easy it was.

Clint shrugs. "I think he wants to remind us that we're still agents or something," he answers, though he's actually pretty annoyed too. It was so easy that the entire mission took three bullets in total, and an hour of hiding out in a supply closet that was so far from an unguarded area that the two of them were able to talk the whole time. A talk that was strangely dominated by cats. "But really, _France_? What's interesting about France?"

"Nothing," she says, crossing her arms and he hasn't seen her this irritated about a job in a while. Then again, they haven't been this bored in a while. "He could've sent Maria or something. At least she'd have an excuse to stick around and visit her sister or whatever family member she has there."

"Brother-in-law, I think." Not that it really matters. He pulls out his cell phone to see if he has any missed calls. Though he finds none, the clock informs him that it was one thirty in morning and, oh yeah, it's a Friday, isn't it? "We haven't eaten in a day have we?"

"Unfortunately."

"Want to go to a diner?"

For a moment, Natasha looks at him blankly. Then realization dawns. "Sure," she says. "You haven't been there in a while."

"What's the point? I sort of live with her."

They changed directions, walking north. "How's that working out for you anyway?" she asks.

Even to Natasha, he doesn't want to admit everything. "Fine," he answers. "Definitely makes early mornings less boring, now that you spend it with your boyfriend and leave me all alone."

Since he totally did deserve it, he didn't dodge when she shoved him. She says, "Shut up, it's weird enough that you know already. Oh, and Pepper figured it out, too. I know I shouldn't be surprised, but it's just awkward."

"I get it," he says, and does. Though his friend's never said it out loud, he knows her well enough to see that she really doesn't like the woman. "Are you guys ever going to tell anyone else, or do they all have to stumble across it on their own?"

"Maybe. Are you ever going to tell your little girlfriend anything? Because watching you guys flirt is sort of like watching a third grader attempting to woo his crush."

Embarrassed now, he asks, "Is it that obvious?"

Whenever Natasha smirks, she looks evil, and he will stand by this view for the rest of his life. "Oh, absolutely," she says, and they turn on Eighth. Three more blocks and they'll be there. "Obvious enough that Bruce compared you to Steve in terms of relationship ineptitude. Thank about that for a moment."_  
_

Getting compared to Steve was one thing, but having Bruce be the one to point it out makes it a thousand times worse. By now this conversation's dragging on too long for him to be remotely comfortable with it because Clint's never been the type to talk about his personal "feelings" or whatever. Even so, he has to know, so he says, "Do you think she knows?"

His friend stares. Then, "Wow, you're a fucking idiot."

But then they're in front of the diner, and Briony's turning around with dishes from group of business men in her arm. She noticeably brightens when she sees them, and Clint doesn't have a chance to answer. He'll want an explanation later, but as they push open the door, he's relieved the subject is dropped for now.

As she walks past them and pauses, Brie says, "Sit wherever, I'll be there in a sec. Do you guys want a coffee?"

"Uh, sure," he answers, and Natasha agrees. When she walks away to get the check from the cook or whatever she has to do, they snag a seat close to the door and proceed to ignore the Bonnie Tyler song that's played at such a low volume it's equivalent to white noise.

Before she can come back, dropping the check off to the business men and carrying two mugs of coffee, the other waiter - the Ellie woman, the one who has a thing for decrepit old guys - comes over. She says, "Hi, I'm Eleanor and I'll be your server today," and puts menus in front of them. When she looks up and realizes exactly who's in the booth she adds, "Oh, haven't seen you in a while."

Well, this is awkward, Clint thinks. "Well, you know," he answers, hoping she doesn't notice that both her and Natasha have guns at their hips (actually, in retrospect, maybe coming here when it isn't just Briony was a bad idea). "I've been busy with sleeping and all that. Very time consuming."

"It's nice to have you back," the woman says, taking out the order slip notepad thing and Briony is awkwardly standing behind her now, obviously trying not to laugh. She takes a glance at Natasha. "Is this your girlfriend?"

People were so nosy, but this is so ridiculous that he's having trouble keeping a straight face and even Natasha, whom he's explained the bizarre relationship to, seems to be struggling against a smile. "I'm his coworker," she answers. "In no way his girlfriend. And our coffee's sort of behind you right now."

Eleanor turns around, apparently surprised to find that their coffee wasn't just floating there on its own (okay, so that was mean, but Clint's never pretended to be a nice person in the first place). Briony shrugs to an unasked question. "Managed to take the order as they came in," she says. "You can do the rest if you'd like."

"You aren't supposed to take orders at the door, Fredriksen." She sounds almost accusatory. "You know that."

As she puts the coffee down in front of them, she says, "They sort of get friend privileges, sorry. I can sit down and make sure they tip generously since I've done the last two tables."

"They're your friends?"

"Mhm. So do you want the table?"

Surprisingly, the woman agrees, and Briony slides into the booth next to Clint while they order French toast to share (because, fuck it, it says French but it's American and they're up for a little irony). "I thought you guys weren't due back until nine," she says once they're alone.

"It was easier than we suspected," Natasha answers and just like that, she's back to being annoyed. "We figured we were hungry."

"But the flight from here to Paris is a little over seven hours."

Oh, yes, coffee, the greatest drink mankind has ever invented. He ignores that it's a little too hot because he needs it at the moment. "We were there three hours," he says. "That includes first stepping off the plane and first getting back on it. Sound about right, Tash?"

"Two hours, forty-six minutes actually."

"Well aren't you precise."

Briony snickers and Natasha looks a step away from rolling her eyes. Eleanor comes over with the French toast, and they give the mumbled, necessary thank yous. Clint asks, "What time to get out today? Usual?"

"Three, technically," she answers. "So, you know, at two. I have a Russian test to study for. Thank god my teacher's better than my last one."

"Oh, really?" he says, because the test was yesterday and she has no classes on Friday. "We'll leave like five to two. Meet you down the street?"

As Natasha strategically steals a piece covered liberally with more syrup than anywhere else because she can be a bitch like that sometimes, Brie says, "Sure. I have to pick up my paycheck, though, if you don't mind waiting an extra two minutes."

"Works for me," Natasha answers and the clock is ticking away towards two. Truthfully, Clint doesn't really want to go home because the dullness of the mission has made him antsy, but Fury told them that unless they fuck up badly, they aren't allowed to go to HQ to debrief until at least six, but preferably later. Why this, he doesn't know and he isn't sure he particularly wants to.

Knowing their luck, Fury's off doing something more interesting.

At ten to two, they call for the check, and pay in cash, following up with Briony's promise to tip a tad over twenty percent. He hopes she doesn't get in too much trouble when the woman later realizes that they only tipped twenty-one percent, but that's besides the point. Brie joins them not long after, envelope held in her hand.

.

Realization doesn't dawn on him until two days later, and when it finally clicks, he really does feel like an idiot. He's the hawk, the most observant one of the Avengers, if not the entirety of S.H.I.E.L.D. So how the fuck hasn't he picked up on it yet?

He decides to blame it on being too close. Ever since he was a kid, he'd always been good at seeing things from far away rather than up close, getting too caught up in the many little details rather than seeing all of those and the big picture. So really, it shouldn't be too much of a surprise that he was utterly clueless, and maybe he's in a little bit of denial too (he still can't get over that _teen_ is in her age for another year and a half). But now that he sees it, it can't be unseen.

And honestly, it kind of scares him.

Though he can't trace exactly when it started - for either of them - he knows that he never seriously considered he and Briony as a...well, as a _them_. But now she's his roommate, she's kissed him, they've been in bed together at least a dozen times, and it turns out what he's incredibly stupid sometimes. Go figure.

"Are you okay?" she asks him after he spends a moment too long just staring into space, something that he doesn't normally do, looking up from her book because all the girl ever does is either work or study.

"What?" he answers. "Oh. Yeah. I guess I'm just tired."

"Then go to sleep," she says, and goes back to her homework, underlining something in her book. It's _Brave New World_, something he once tried to read out of curiosity and couldn't make it past the first twenty pages.

Maybe tired wasn't a good excuse, especially since he's actually awake to the point that's he's getting jittery. "Tired but not that tired," he says. "Don't you have Lit on Tuesday?"

"Yup."

Jesus, he knows her schedule too. And her birthday, and her favorite color and fears and what her facial expressions mean and fuck it if they aren't practically together anyway. So how the hell didn't he notice it?

"You can wait you know."

She shrugs and chews on the end of her pen. "I've got nothing else to do," she says. "Everyone's busy, I don't have work, and I'm out of books. So, homework. Unless you want me to annoy you."

"If you haven't notice, it's kind of hard to do that," he says, then pauses. "Except for Tony, but he seems to have a gift for being frustrating."

She smiles at him over the top of her book. "I -" she starts, but is cut off by her cell phone beeping. "Oh, it's Katie. I better go."

Leaving. Right, that might be a good thing, Clint decides. He needs time to think, to figure out what to do because he's never been in this situation before. It's not something he'd ever been trained to deal with, and it isn't the sort of thing that just clicks for him. Not in the way it does for Natasha. He brain just doesn't work that way, which isn't normally a problem. Briony stands, slides _Brave New World _onto the coffee table, and he catches sight of her feet, which before had been buried under the couch cushions.

Against his better judgment and despite his confusion, he laughs.

Startled, she stops, looking at him before following his gaze down to her socks, and he can count on one hand the number of times he's made her blush. "My mamma made them for me for Christmas," she says. "I figured I'd wear boots and no one would see - they're just penguins, Clint!"

"Yeah," he answers, "I'm calling bullshit on that one that. They look like deformed s'mores if you took away the gram crackers and added a candy corn."

"It was her first attempt at making anything that wasn't a scarf or a hat," she says. "I felt obligated to wear them at least a few times...Do they really look like s'mores?"

He nods and she rolls her eyes. "Nice. Okay, leaving now. _Naturally _you had to come back right before someone's schedule opened it."

"Wait - what?"

With a shrug, she answers, "I've know you for what - five months? - and honestly, you're better company than anyone else I've met in college. Don't know if you feel the same way, but it's true. Anyway, see'ya."

There's _got _to be a hidden meaning folded up somewhere in there, he thinks, and if Natasha hadn't pointed it out, he wouldn't have noticed it. "Yeah," he says, standing up too because sitting and looking up feels awkward. "And I mean yeah I do, not yeah I don't. I should shut up now, shouldn't I?"

She blinks and he realizes, oh, she gets it too. It hasn't crossed his mind that she was just as clueless as he was. Then she says, "I thought you liked Natasha."

Something shifts. "She's like a sister," he answers, "and there's something going on between her and Tony, which I definitely should've just said but whatever. Kind of disturbing actually..."

"Damn. I'm an idiot."

"Yeah, I'm feeling pretty stupid here too."

For a moment they stand there awkwardly. She tells him, "You know, Katie's blown me off so many times that I think I can do it to her for once."

Normally he'd say that he didn't mind, but this situation just got weird. Whether it's in a good way or a bad way he hasn't figured out yet, but maybe he should try being optimistic. "This isn't like a rebound thing, is it?" he asks. "Because, um, I kind of twenty-seven."

"Not a rebound," she says. "Definitely. Wouldn't be here if you were. And so? It's not like I'm a high school student. So is this really a - a thing or not?"

_A thing _isn't really the way he'd describe it. "I don't really think I can say no by this point," he answers as she texts her friend, "but there's a pretty distinct possibility that I'm more surprised than you right now."

Again, she shrugs. "Probably. You aren't going to change your mind tomorrow, right?"

"If you haven't noticed, I don't operate that way."

"Great."

There's a pause, then he adds, "This has to be the most uncomfortable asking out ever."

"Sounds about right."

And since there's nothing else to do, he leans down and kisses her.

.

I _really _hope this chapter isn't too short. I've never really written romance before and my personal relationships have pretty poisonous, but I've watched a lot of people fall in love in my life (including my brother, which was weird as fuck because it was a girl in my grade who I'm half-friends with) and for a guy, cluelessness seems to be the norm.

...I probably shouldn't have told you that.


End file.
